by Jenny Harper
In the weeks since the showdown with Cameron, Lexie had spent a considerable amount of time on her own, but not unhappily. Things had begun to settle. A new bond of intimacy had restored the old friendship with Molly – Jamie tethered them with a thread that could never be broken. The old anger at the injustice of his early death had passed into sad acceptance.
As for her relationship with Cameron, she missed it only because she missed the thrill of making love to him. His body, she thought from time to time with pangs of real regret, seemed uniquely fashioned to fit with hers. But she’d mistaken carnality for love, with horrible consequences.
She saw her parents. Martha still came with shoes and lists and love. Molly scurried over with food. Occasionally, she ventured into Hailesbank to meet with Cora Spyridis. There was a considerable amount to do in terms of planning. Still, much could be done via email and a regular stream of correspondence passed between them.
There were only two rooms in The Maker’s Mark, and neither was particularly big.
< “Charlotte” has to go on the wall opposite the door, > Cora emailed. < It’s the key to everything. >
< Agreed. What about the other two main oils? >
< “Pavel” opposite the door in the back room, “Jamie” on the side where you enter? >
< Why? Why not “Jamie” in the best place. More impact. >
< You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But honestly, the lighting is better on the other side, everything works to focus the eyes on the main painting there. >
And so they batted ideas backwards and forwards, to and fro. It was a tricky exhibition to plan because there were so many elements: labels describing the stories, pastel drawings, the shoes themselves and, of course, the paintings. These had to form the centrepiece of the show, so it went without saying that they had to be strategically displayed. And although some of the shoes would be displayed on plinths, Lexie wanted others to give the impression of a journey, of marching, or climbing or dancing, or whatever told their story best.
< I want the paintings to be surrounded by shoes, > emailed Lexie. < They’ll have to be propped on thin nails hammered into the wall so that they are invisible. > wall. Anyway, the paintings are what we’re here to sell, so they must be shown to best possible advantage, and that means on a clean wall with no distracting clutter. > < It’s all one thing. You can’t separate the paintings from the shoes, or the drawings, or the stories. >
They devised an arrangement of plinths of different heights that would draw the eye in from the main door to where “Charlotte” was going to hang. Each plinth would have a pair of shoes on the top, with its own pastel sketch mounted on board and secured to the stand behind. A neat label explaining each story would be fixed to one side.
< I like the idea they’ll have to work a bit to find everything out, > Lexie emailed, < and that they’ll get a first impression without being told too much about it. It’ll be fun to see how different their impression is from the story. >
< True. Those trainers, for example... ;-) >
In the second room, the one where there was usually a coffee counter, Lexie wheedled and cajoled and worked everything out technically so that in the end she got her way. One whole wall would comprise an ascending trail of shoes, from a pair of Edwardian riding boots at the bottom, following a pair of World War I flying boots and a miner’s shoe salvaged from a pit disaster in West Lothian in 1889. Onwards and upwards they wound, like so many shoes ascending a mountain path, slanting from bottom right to three feet up the wall at the far left, then turning and following the next shoes upward to the right, four times in all until the pathway of shoes reached the ceiling.
It was a miracle of design. Lexie understood perspective perfectly, and as the shoes went higher and higher, she chose smaller and smaller ones, so that they would seem to disappear to the summit.
< How can we fix them? >
< We’ll make a series of small perspex shelves that can be pinned to the wall. They’re not very heavy. >
< This sounds great! >
< How will we identify them?>
Lexie emailed a sketch.
< I’ll work this up into a proper drawing and add numbers. We can print off twenty or thirty copies and laminate them. The notes can be on the back. People can just pick one up and use it as a key. >
< Brilliant. You are brilliant. Glad we’re working on this! >
Lexie returned her mug to the kitchen, where she rinsed it and turned it upside down to drain. There was no time to waste.
Painting had absorbed her ever since Cora Spyridis had given her the news that The Maker’s Mark would be delighted to host her exhibition. She had reclaimed the joy of working as one with brush and palette knife and paint, absorbed to the point of living almost entirely in a world of her own making. The cottage had become not just her home, or her studio, but also a personal universe where meaning was distilled into colour and form and brushstroke with such passion that at the end of each day she was drained of every ounce of energy.
She’d settle again in a minute. The exhibition was next week and although she had promised to do it first, she’d left Pavel’s ballet shoes till last. Circumstances, after all, had changed. She wanted to spend time with Pavel. She wanted to remember his fluttering hands and his self-parodying voice, and the respect he’d had for beautiful objects with a past he’d loved to guess at.
She turned her easel to the light and stood back.
Who would ever have guessed the frail, rather stooped old man had such a glorious, colourful history? She smiled, remembering the delight with which he’d accepted the interest of the local schoolchildren and middle-aged rockers. He had adored being the centre of attention once again. The painting of his shoes had to capture this exuberance.
She lifted her brush, then stood quite still, lost in thought.
What had Patrick’s connection with Pavel been?
Sit down, sweetheart.
Had Patrick really said that? Surely she wasn’t remembering correctly? He’d been kind, nothing more.
She lifted her brush again. It was her exhibition she had to think about now. No point in thinking about Patrick.
Lexie worked on, driven by a passion that burned deep inside her. She didn’t think about lunch. She didn’t break for tea. Only when the light failed did she stop, defeated by conditions. There were other jobs that could still be done – the display plan to finalise and the notes to review.
It was almost midnight before she fell into bed, but even then she couldn’t rest. She wanted to look at her slides again, to check the images against her notes. She took the disk out of its sleeve and pushed it into her laptop. As the computer whirred, her mouth lifted at one corner and she shook her head almost imperceptibly so that hair the scarlet of a ladybird’s back glinted in the soft light of the lamp by the bed. She was becoming obsessive about everything, just as Molly had predicted.
The new work represented a shift in tone and style. She was afraid of this, but there was no ignoring it. But was her judgement reliable? After everything that had happened, was it even possible to be objective? Still, she had to try, because it was no longer a case of, How will visitors to my exhibition react to this? but, Does my work do the story justice? She believed this with a passion.
‘My exhibition.’ The words buzzed thrillingly in her head as she bent towards the screen. A small pulse throbbed in the creamy flesh of her neck, just below the sharp angle of the jaw. My exhibition. She couldn’t wait for the opening. She’d invite Patrick Mulgrew, just to show him she’d done it all herself. He’d never believe it – after all, hadn’t he told her what he thought of her and her abilities?
It had to be good. More than that: it had to be perfect.
Now she was ready. Her concentration was absolute, her mind focused.
She clicked Play.
Three minutes later she let out her breath, confident that the work was everything she’d aimed for. It was creative and evocative. It was original,
and it was moving.
Yet something wasn’t quite right. Something was missing.
She pushed her fingers through the spiky cherry-red hair, absorbed in thought.
What was missing? What?
One o’clock already. She yawned, rubbed slender fingers across her temples, and stretched, too tired to think it through. Perhaps what she needed to do would come to her overnight. She ejected the DVD and switched off her laptop, then pushed back the duvet and crawled underneath it. Thinking exhausted her. Everything that had happened had unravelled the thread of her energy down to the last inch.
But sleep wouldn’t come, and the feeling of unease would not go away.
There’d be standing room only at The Maker’s Mark tonight. Cora, mindful of the first opening, where people had spilled onto the street because she’d underestimated the interest in the new gallery, had refined the guest list so that it was much more targeted to serious buyers. For that reason, she’d suggested to Alexa that she had a mini private viewing for her family and closest friends in the afternoon.
They worked all morning to get the display right. At last, surveying the wall of shoes, Cora felt satisfied.
‘You were right and I was wrong,’ she admitted. ‘It’s working really well.’
‘So long as no-one jostles too near and they start tumbling off.’ Lexie was getting nervous about everything.
‘No problem. We can put a couple of posts on either side with silk cord stretched across to keep people clear.’
‘Brilliant.’ Lexie dusted her hands together and patted down her skirt. ‘My folks will be here soon, I’d better freshen up.’
‘Who’s coming?’
‘Mum and Dad, Molly, Edith Lawrence – she’s being brought by a carer – and Jonas Wood. He was a really close friend of Jamie’s. Oh, and I invited Hanke too. She’s Pavel’s sister? But I don’t think she’ll come.’
Cameron should have been invited because he’d been there at the beginning, when they’d found Edith’s baby’s bootees, but she was damned if she’d offer him a special viewing. He could come with the rest of the general public if he was interested, which he probably wouldn’t be. Nor had she specifically invited Carlotta. She wasn’t sure of how things stood between Jonas and Carlotta and didn’t want to guess it wrongly.
‘Right. I’ll get the girls to make sure there’s coffee and tea. They’ve bought in a few cakes from the bakery too.’
‘I really appreciate this, Cora.’
Lexie had grown to like and respect this tall, half Greek woman. They’d forged a working relationship that had smoothed away difficulties and produced something that was both practicable and – did she dare claim it? – special.
Chapter Thirty-two
Catalogue number 27: Chelsea boots, black leather, well worn. Donor: Frank Partridge, Liverpool. ‘I was a teenager in the 1960s when The Beatles started to play in The Cavern. We used to save up all our money to go and listen to them. I also saved up enough for these boots – they were incredibly trendy!’
Martha and Tom arrived first. Tom admired the display in the large room, stood for a few minutes in front of “Charlotte” then wandered into the side room. Lexie followed him nervously. It would be the first time he’d seen “Jamie”.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back and looked at “Pavel”. He walked across to where the mountain path climbed up the wall, picked up the information sheet and studied it carefully. He turned it over, read the notes, looked up at the wall again, scanned the notes. Lexie’s apprehension grew. Soon he’d turn round and see –
Tom turned.
The notes on the mountain path fell to the floor and she saw his hands spasm and clench. “Jamie” was a complex painting. The rugby boots were jumbled together, as if tossed carelessly down, their laces still caked with mud, signs of the last game he’d played all too evident on the leather. Behind them a complex arrangement of objects merged, ghost-like, to form a background of depth and subtlety. Jamie’s face was perhaps the most easily discerned. He was laughing out of the canvas, just as he’d laughed at the camera in the photo at Tantallon.
Tantallon Castle was there – or, at least, a recognisable portion of its ruined walls. She hadn’t included Molly, but a faint pattern of peonies was a copy of the fabric of Molly’s favourite dress. It was a clue that only anyone who knew her well would understand. The lion knocker on the front door at Fernhill featured. In the top corner was part of a toy train Jamie had loved when he’d been a boy.
Lexie held her breath. From the other room she could hear Jonas talking to her mother, but in here she was alone with Tom.
There was a strangled noise, a guttural, wrenching choke of a sob. She stared at her father’s back, anguished.
She had made him weep.
Lexie crossed the room in two bounds and wrapped her arms round him.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m so sorry, Dad. It was meant to be a tribute. You know? Bring him to life in our memories. I’m so, so sorry.’
She felt her father’s arm close around her and his head resting on the top of hers. He was shaking.
A moment later, she became aware that Martha had joined them.
‘Good,’ she said, her voice kind, but firm.
Lexie looked up. Martha was smiling, although her eyes were bright with tears.
‘Very good. At last we have found your grief for your son, Tom.’
Tom’s clasp loosened and Lexie straightened up.
‘All these months you’ve controlled it, but it’s better out – isn’t it?’
Martha’s back was very straight. How far she’d come, Lexie thought, in these past weeks, from the clingy, broken woman she’d been last year. She looked at her father. He had taken his glasses off and his cheeks were wet. Martha produced a hankie and Tom blew his nose, loudly, but he straightened up and managed a smile. He held out his hand to his wife.
‘We made a good thing, didn’t we?’
‘Two,’ Martha said, taking his hand and circling Lexie with her other arm. ‘We made two good things, darling, and we still have a precious one right here.’
Everyone reacted differently. Edith Lawrence arrived with a young male carer from Sea View. She was flirting with him. She peered at the shoes on the plinths and the lad read her the notes.
‘Ooh, that’s nice,’ Lexie heard her say. And, ‘Winklepickers? My Arthur used to wear winklepickers.’
Lexie crossed the gallery and took her hand.
‘Hello, Edith, it’s me, Lexie.’
‘Hello dear.’
She led her gently towards “Charlotte”. She wasn’t certain that Edith remembered who she was, but she was better equipped to show her the painting than anyone.
‘What do you think? Do you recognise them?’
Edith spied the bootees on the plinth before she saw the painting.
‘Those are my Charlotte’s baby shoes,’ she said, ‘I recognise that little white bit at the toe where I dropped a wee splash of bleach.’
‘Yes, that’s right, they’re Charlotte’s bootees.’
Edith swung round and looked at her accusingly.
‘Where did you get these from? They’re mine!’
‘I know they are, Edith. You gave them to me, remember? You asked if I would paint them. And I have. Look.’
She put her arm round Edith and turned her to face the painting. Edith looked up at it. She was wearing the green terraced hat she’d been wearing the day she’d climbed in the kitchen window at Fernhill. Today it was secured by a hat pin, but the hair beneath it was so wispy that Lexie couldn’t imagine how it was holding.
‘What’s that?’
‘That’s my painting of Charlotte’s bootees.’
She didn’t see it. Her brain couldn’t connect the small knitted objects with the flat canvas. She shook her head. ‘Don’t know what it is.’
Lexie didn’t push her. Edith swivelled back to the bootees.
‘They’re mine. They we
re my baby’s.’
‘I know. You said we could borrow them.’
But Edith’s mind was set in a groove.
‘They’re mine,’ she repeated, and reached out a hand and took them.
Lexie froze. The bootees were a pivotal part of the exhibition. The canvas didn’t make sense without them – yet how could she take them back from Edith? They were hers, and she was so deeply emotionally attached to them that it would be wrong to take them from her. What could she do?
She looked for Cora, but she was nowhere nearby. One of the two assistants was eying her with alarm but seemed incapable of offering any suggestions. The bootees were scrunched up in Edith’s claw-like hand.
‘Why don’t you hold them for a while, Edith?’
It was Martha’s voice. Lexie turned with relief.
‘Don’t worry,’ Martha mouthed at her over her shoulder.
The days of Martha’s dependency were clearly over. If anyone was in charge of the Gordon family these days, it was her mother.
Pavel’s sister was standing in the doorway, almost filling it from post to hinge. Lexie, shocked, crossed the room to welcome her.
‘Hanke,’ she said, extending her hand in greeting, ‘how wonderful that you’ve come.’
‘I had some loose ends to tie up anyway.’
Hanke’s small black eyes swivelled from side to side as she tried to take everything in.
‘Let me show you round.’
‘Anywhere to dump this?’
Hanke swung a heavy bag off her shoulders and held it out.
‘I’m sure there is. Hold on a moment.’
They stored the bag under the desk.
She explained the exhibition to Hanke. Nothing. No reaction. Lexie soldiered on, though she would rather have had any response – even a negative one – than this mask of indifference. When they reached “Pavel”, Hanke stopped.
‘That’s a good one,’ she said.
‘That’s “Pavel”. That’s your brother’s shoes.’
